Remember All The Words I Said
by eeenjolras
Summary: A boy on the street hands him a piece a paper with words that will never leave him
1. Remember All The Words I Said

The streets are busy. Everyone is moving. Some have a destination in mind. Some don't. But that's okay. As long as you don't stop moving, the unimaginably thick flow of people won't crush you.

The buildings tower over the people. They look down on the humans like gods, despairing the waste of potential and harshly judging the lower than dirt beings. The sky is grey and rain falls down. It hits the pavement in a repetitive motion. The noise drives some of the people who are moving slowly to quicken there pace and find shelter. Others love the feel of the cool liquid on their skin and dawdle.

The heavens are weeping for the souls lost in today's events.

Today, the revolution tried again. Today, the revolution failed again. Today, no one really cares about the people foolish enough to fight against the power of the world. Only nature and the omnipotent care for the needless waste of lives. Lives that could have had some potential. But people are inherently bad, so the likelihood of any of the lost lives ever truly doing anything good and helpful is extremely unlikely. So, maybe it was just best that they died before they did more bad than good.

Or that is at least what Desmond Miles, the resident cynic and only still body in an ever-moving world, thinks.

"Fucking idiots," he had muttered when the sirens filled the air.

The fires had illuminated through the moth eaten curtains of his tiny apartment. He heard the screams of the revolutionaries. It did not affect him. Desmond has long become numb. The thought that the people burning could have been one of his friends does not cross his mind once. Desmond has no one. He is no one. He believes in nothing.

He is just one, useless shred of DNA adding to the plague that the human race is on the planet.

Desmond usually stays in during the day. Today, however, he leaves his apartment to stand and gaze up at the grey sky.

He sometimes misses the heights. He misses the rush of climbing. Desmond misses seeing his reflection in someone's bright eyes. His cheeks flushed and mouth wide open as he breaths deeply.

Desmond's better off on the ground. Being too high off the ground encourages stupidity and believing in the impossible. Believing in nothing is much easier. Nothing to lose and no disappointment.

"Hello!" a chipper voice catches Desmond's attention.

He tears his gaze from the skyline to look at a boy wrapped up in a grey hoodie. Desmond knows that hoodie too well. Desmond's distracted by the boy's youth. He vaguely tickles Desmond's memory. His brown skin and dark piercing eyes remind Desmond of a figure who once played the part of his voice of reason when Desmond was beginning to realize that everything was lost. Desmond use to hang onto his words, hoping he'd soon rejoin the fight. (Of course, once Desmond realized that believing in something was a waste of a life, his voice of reason no longer seemed to affect him.)

"Can I interest you in a new world?" the boy asks.

He's breathless and so excited to being sharing his beliefs, Desmond notes. The boy is new and impressionable. And above all fucking idiotic for joining a doomed movement.

"No," Desmond responds sharply before walking away.

The boy remains there, shocked for a few seconds before scrambling to catch up to Desmond. He has to push through a few people, but the boy swiftly attaches himself to Desmond's side.

"Why don't you wish for a new world? Where we aren't under the constant fear of our tyrannical ruler?"

"Look, kid –"

"I'm seventeen," the boy protests and Desmond almost chokes on his own tongue.

(Are they really recruiting them this young now? Christ, Desmond thought he had been young – but then again he had been born into this fight.)

"You can't throw your life away with this cause. A new world just isn't possible."

This ignites a light in the boy's eyes and he shoves a bright red paper in Desmond's face.

The words flash through Desmond's mind. Everything flashes through with such intensity and concentration that Desmond almost passes out. It's too much, to remember it all.

"I have hope," the boy tells him. "You just need to find what you believe in."

"I have and I lost it," Desmond grumbles, crumpling the paper. "Actually, it was stolen from me. People aren't good. People are greedy and they take and take. They aren't going to help with the revolution; they aren't going to thank you. They are going to complain and ask what's taking you so long and criticize your methods."

"And yet people join our cause everyday. People willing to make a change, people ready to fight."

"How many stories have you heard on the Burning of the Courts?"

"I've been privy to much information on the story," the boy answers, almost proudly.

Desmond wants to puke. This boy shouldn't be idolizing and looking up to the Burning. He should hate it. Condemning it. Shaming it. Hundreds died. Thousands injured. And it was all one person's fault.

"It was a great exemplar of strong message to our leaders. We aren't afraid."

"No," Desmond corrects tightly. "It was a message to our leaders that the revolutionaries are a bunch of incompetent old people attempting to teach radical and unpredictable youth how to fight a war. A stupid fuck made an irrational, emotion based call that got a lot of people killed."

"What would you know?" the boy demands, pulling his stack of papers protectively into this chest.

Desmond smiles sardonically and cruelly. How cute, the boy seems to look up to the agent who went into the Courts that day. They are still walking down the busy street, their voices steadily rising. No one notices. No one notices those who don't want to be seen.

"How can you even think to defend a man who has the blood of several hundred people with family and loved ones on his hands?"

"He did the best with what he was given," the boy protests. "It was a no-win situation, and sure, he made a poor call but it still sent the necessary message. The government knows that this time around, the revolution it real. The so-called incompetent old people are building a new, stronger group of people ready to fight for the cause."

Desmond laughs. His laugh is cold and mocking. He remembers the days when he was that boy. Eager to fight for the cause. Ready to die for it without knowing anything.

"They are creating an army or brainless youth ready to throw their lives away. You're wasting your time, kid. Nothing is worth throwing your life away. Don't be a pawn in their game."

Desmond turns and walks away. Desmond flattens out the red piece of paper as best he can in his palm. He gently folds it up and puts it away in his pocket.

Because no matter how much he tries, the cynic can't forget the words that once held his entire world.

Until, Desmond had learned the lies in the words. Nothing _is_ true. But nothing is permitted.


	2. When No One Else Was Looking

**Desmond isn't sure how he does it, but the boy from the street finds him.**

** "When No One Else Was Looking"**

The bar is a calming place. The low murmur of voices, highlighted by the clinking of glass is Desmond's lullaby. Desmond falls into a routine lull each night, listening to the familiar ramblings of the normal occupants.

His work is dull and mind numbing. But it distracts his mind from the darkness hidden under the surface.

(The cynicism and the trauma.)

The patrons don't ask questions about his life and Desmond doesn't ask questions about theirs. The bar is a place where strangers go to hide and be anonymous.

(Desmond can't better think of a place to personify the Assassins. There's an unspoken code and bond shared between everyone here, much like the Brotherhood.)

Nothing happens in the quiet bar, tucked neatly into the crowded streets of the city.

Today is like every other day. It's cool and raining outside. So a few people more that usual are there, to get out of the rain and have a warm drink. People are curled into themselves, retaining heat as best they can. Desmond has to hold back his laughter at their stupidity. He wants to shout that alcohol will not do them any good in the cold weather.

"I'll take a Shirley Templar," a man asks, shuffling up to the counter. "I've heard this is the only place in the city to get one."

A hunched figure a few seats down laughs at that.

"What's so funny?" the man demands as Desmond prepares the drink.

(His hands are on autopilot as he watches the exchange. But that's what happens when you live a repetitive life – nothing needs to be thought about too long anymore.)

"There's a reason only one place sells Shirley _'Templars,'_" the hunched one answers.

There is a certain inflection to the word Templars that sends shivers up Desmond's spine. For a moment his flawless hand movements stutter and Desmond curses softly. He frowns and stares at the mixture intensely for a fraction of a second, to double check that his method is correct, before returning his gaze upward.

"And why's that?" Desmond asks curiously.

(The first man looks slightly surprised. Desmond's aware that he's made a reputation as a silent, stoic barkeep.)

"The creator of the drink is a fucking idiot," the hunched figure says.

Laughter bubbles up the hunched figure's throat and he tosses his head back. His face is exposed and Desmond suddenly recognizes him as the boy from the street a few weeks back.

"Here's your drink, it's on the house," Desmond murmurs, sliding the drink at the first man before making his way down the bar.

"Fancy meeting you here," the boy greets, with a smile.

"You're not allowed in here," Desmond growls.

The boys eyes are dark, stormy and challenge him to kick him out. Something pings in the back of Desmond's brain as he recognizes the challenging look. He can't quite place it. The words tumble out of Desmond's mouth before he's even aware that he's made the connection.

"Don't look at me like that, Mal!" Desmond snaps angrily, like the young hotheaded apprentice he was only a few years ago.

Suddenly the boy's eyes widen and he caves into himself. He retreats into a shell that Desmond wasn't even aware existed.

(But Desmond doesn't know the boy very well in the first place. How was he to know the boy was anything other than an optimistic ray of sunshine?)

Desmond opens his mouth to say something else. But he can't think of anything. The damage has been done.

The boy stands from the stool – his expression carefully schooled blank – and leaves the bar.

Desmond stands there, his throat dry.

"_Kadar_-" Desmond murmurs after a few seconds. "_Fuck."_


	3. Hopeless

**Desmond is entirely sure what to think when he sees Kadar has returned to the bar.**

The bar is in a heavy lull that night. There is little movement between the handful of patrons and they all seem to slowly be sipping at their drinks. The bar is quiet enough that Desmond can hear the television tucked neatly in the far corner. Everyone seems to be watching it as it reports a bombing that happened during the most recent political scandal.

Desmond stopped caring about politics a long time ago – even before he joined the Assassins one of the many political resistances. It's fucked up and twisted. No one says the right things, it's all backdoor deals, and under the counter payments. Desmond's fond of telling his roommate that it's only a matter of time until the scales finally break and the city breaks out it chaos.

(The only real thing that gets him is that innocent people are dying. Desmond can't deal with any more death.)

Of course, Desmond has an inside look at the political situation. And the chaos would be organized and carefully crafted by either the Assassins of the Templars. Both groups have been manipulating the city for years preparing for the moment the politicians finally fuck themselves over so much that the spark of the people is lit.

Desmond is unsure of how he feels about the entire thing. If the current system collapsed, there would an opportunity for a new system to rise. Unfortunately, with the Templars and Assassins being the only strong options as future political powers, Desmond doesn't dare hope for any upheaval. Bill and his crew of old fools, for the Assassins, and Al Mualim and Warren Vidic, two of the Templars head honchos, show little promise as the 'leaders of tomorrow' they claimed to be.

With no drinks to serve and no glasses to clean, thanks to the molasses like business of the bar, Desmond leans back and sticks his hands in his pockets. He's surprised when he finds something in there. It's soft, obviously being left in there for multiple washes. He pulls it out, finding it to be a folded piece of paper, and takes care to not rip it as he peels it open.

The words are faded, but Desmond knows clearly what it says. Seeing it reminds him of the hope in Kadar's eyes when he had first given it to Desmond. Seeing it reminds Desmond of the way Kadar looked at him when Desmond called Kadar by his brother's name. Angry with himself, Desmond crumples the paper up and tosses it in the trashcan.

He leans forward on the bar and presses his forehead to the cool, and surprisingly not sticky surface. He stays there, focusing on breathing, and thinking of the words his father once whispered to him at night. A promise of a new world where Desmond didn't have to live underground and his education wasn't based solely on his financial standing. Desmond had believed in that new world. He had wanted it. The moment he convinced his father to let him join the Assassins, with Altaïr and Malik watching his back, Desmond joined the fight for the new world.

(_"It's my birthright!" Desmond had shouted at his father, fourteen with all the hope in the world. "You've been training me since I could walk for this! Malik is 17 and Altaïr's 16. It's our time now. We can take care of ourselves."_

"_Desmond – " his father begun but Desmond stubbornly cut him off, failing to hear the pleading warnings in his father's voice._

"_We're the most promising students anyone has ever seen! You've said it! Our teachers have said it! It's time to let us join. We want to fight we are _ready_, Dad! We can watch each others' backs. It's not like we are going in this alone."_

_His father looked defeated and slumped down into his desk chair. He whispered something Desmond couldn't hear before nodding his head._

"_Alright, Desmond. You're formal training begins tomorrow at the compound. Tell the others."_

"_I won't let you down, sir," Desmond says stiffly, hiding his excitement poorly.)_

It had happened too quickly, joining young, living the life, and then everything collapsing on him.

It had broken him within three years.

Desmond had been seventeen years old when he became a disillusioned cynic with no real reason to believe in hope for the future. He was the same age as Kadar now when he gave up on it all.

(Still, Desmond finds immense comfort in the quiet and passionate words of his father. They remind him of a time when it was all simple.)

The door rings as it opens and Desmond looks up quickly, his old training slamming to the forefront of his mind. Desmond grips his hand on the bar to recollect himself, squeezing his eyes shut.

(Desmond hasn't quite been in his right mind since his last encounter with Kadar a few weeks ago.)

He breathes in and out. His heartbeat slows, which Desmond has been unaware of it hammering against his ribcage. He opens his eyes slowly and looks to the door. The patron has a familiar grey hoodie on, pulled up and covering their eyes.

"Kadar," Desmond calls softly, not completely registering what he's doing.

Desmond's brain is screaming as the wheels turn. Why is Kadar back? Desmond's only ever seen that much lack of self-preservation in himself. Desmond in their past encounters has treated the boy like shit. Why is he coming back?

Kadar looks up, his eyes guarded but there's a hopeful smile on his face. He makes his way across the bar and sits in the stool directly in front of Desmond.

"Nice to see you," Kadar greets sincerely, tugging down the hood – a gesture of immense trust.

(Desmond wonders if Kadar even knows that.)

"You look well," Desmond praises carefully after inspecting Kadar for any injuries, not really registering that he's doing it.

(Kadar's a kid in the Assassins. He probably has no one looking after him. Not with Malik's hands full with the case Altaïr has become.)

"Don't do that," Kadar hisses. "You're not my brother. You don't get to look after me."

Desmond holds his hands up in defense. Clearly Malik is a sore spot for Kadar.

"Why did you come back?" Desmond asks, trying to keep the edge out of his voice.

"Your father once said he didn't believe that you are a lost cause. He thinks that you still have hope. I'm here because I want to know it that's true," Kadar licks his lips, a nervous gesture. "I sought you out because I wanted to know if the man was as great as the legend he left behind."

"I bet that I left behind something," Desmond mutters darkly.

"People admire you, Desmond. No one blames you for the Burning of the Courts. No one hates you for Lucy," Kadar argues.

Desmond stiffens. His entire body has solidified and he can only hear the heavy thrumming of his heart in his ears. Kadar looks up at him with large eyes filled with concern and admiration.

(No one should admire a cynical coward. No one should admire a broken man.)

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"Theoretically, I do. I've read it all."

"But emotionally, you're lacking. Don't lecture me that it wasn't my fault, kid. It was my fault. I hit the button. Their blood is on my hands."

"Don't call me kid, I'm seventeen," Kadar mumbled petulantly.

"And you shouldn't be here, if you're only seventeen. Be thankful I haven't thrown you out yet," Desmond tells Kadar.

Kadar grins at him widely. He knows Desmond feels bad enough to not throw him out.

"I'm not giving up on you, Desmond," Kadar declares standing from his stool.

His declaration is loud enough that it disturbs the entire bar. Everyone's looking at them both with immense curiosity.

"I'm going to prove that this is world is worth it and that you have hope. I'm going to bring you back to your father. You are worth it, Desmond. People know that. You just need to see it. I will show you. That's a promise."

Kadar turns, tugs up his hood, and begins to leave.

"You can't break what's already broken, kid," Desmond calls after him.

Kadar doesn't reply as the door swings shut, the bell ringing again. Desmond doesn't understand Kadar one bit. The boy is hot and cold. He admires the boy's fortitude though, but it's not going to get him anywhere. Desmond's in an unreachable place now.

Although Desmond hates to admit it, Kadar's determination has warmed something in his heart. Seeing an impassioned youth reminds Desmond of his youth. It also makes him incredibly sad, knowing there is only one way out of this. And Desmond's not going to gain hope. Kadar is going to have to lose all of his.

Tearing his gaze from the door, Desmond looks around the bar to see everyone staring at him.

"None of your business, folks. Get back to your drinks," Desmond snaps, pretending to look busy and hides himself from their gaze.


End file.
